


Formal Dress

by nogoaway



Series: Superstar AU [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/F, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which South borrows a suit, Vanessa Kimball speaks truth to power, and Connie gets laid.</p>
<p>This is Superstar Modern AU, wherein Connie leaks incriminating NSA documents to the Boston Phoenix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Formal Dress

“Fuckin’–” South yanks on the tie again, trying to fit a finger in under the silk. “I don’t wanna do do this, it’s so fuckin’ _bourgeois_.”

Behind her, North sighs, adjusting the lay of the seams by increments. It’s already a near perfect fit– identical twins, and all. “I’m sorry about the suit, but if you hadn’t waited until the last minute–” He reaches up to tuck a loose clump of hair behind her ear. “You pass fine.”

South snorts. “I _know_ I pass fine, dumbass. It’s not about the fuckin’ clothes, leave that shit to your insecure little twink of a boyfriend.”

“Uncalled for,” North warns, brushing invisible dust off the shoulders. It’s the better of the two suits he lectures in– not quite up to snuff for an event of this kind, but way closer than what South had been wearing that morning. Too bad. The leather jacket might have actually gotten her out of this shindig. “Also, don’t spill anything on this. Please.” He pauses. “Better if you don’t drink at all, actually. There’s gonna be cameras everywhere.”

South rolls her eyes. “Of course there’s gonna be cameras, there’s a fucking press conference. Press. Oh my _god_.” How did she get herself into this?

“You’ll be fine.” North smiles over her shoulder in the mirror, with his dumb “proud big brother” expression. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

South sticks her tongue out. There’s a little divot where her barbell should be. “Gross,” she lisps.

“Well.” North fiddles with the cuffs one last time, “I can think of _one_ person who’ll be very happy to see you all spruced up.”

* * *

 

South manages to skip the press conference portion of the evening, because there is a god, apparently, and whoever she is she loves South and hates the MBTA.

_red line fucked_ , South taps out on her phone, shooting it off to North with a giddy, relieved little grin. There. It’s on record. She’s not playing hooky ‘cause she’s nervous, she’s just. Trapped in a subway car.

“Sorry folks,” the beleaguered conductor sighs over the crackling intercom. “Still standing by until we’re cleared to move.”

The man across from South keeps glancing from her face to her knees, his brow crinkling deeper with each pass. South crosses her ankles, very intentionally.

_red line is always fucked_ , North texts back. _no excuses._

_i’ll BE there_ , South returns, and then sets the thing on silent, slightly less relieved. The car shifts, creaks. She shoves the phone in her pocket. The guy across from her pulls the brim of his Sox cap down further over his face. Whatever. All sorts of tight-assed normals on the train; this is why she likes to stick to the bus.

“Finally,” the woman next to her mumbles, when the car jerks forward.

“Uh huh,” South says.

She gets off at Porter and climbs the eighteen plus flights of stairs to street level instead of taking the escalator. It probably buys her another two minutes.

She’ll take anything, at this point.

* * *

 

The shindig in question is in one of the seemingly infinite fancy-ass little Harvard-affiliated brick buildings with white trim that sprinkle all of Cambridge, hidden to varying degrees behind high fences, long driveways, and carefully-manicured foliage. South’s never actually been in one before. The steps are littered with scraps of paper and there’s some reporters still lurking around outside– South shows her driver’s license to the guy at the door and is whisked into a high-ceilinged entrance hall with intricate wooden molding and giant picture frames on every wall. They’re portraits, with bronze plaques under them. A wrinkled white guy glares down at her from each of them. Furniture that looks too small to safely sit on rests here and there, polished and spindly and a million fucking years old.

“What is this,” South asks, aloud “some fucking Skull and Bones bullshit?”

The doorman sputters out a laugh and tries, much too late, to hide it in a fit of coughing. “The, uh. Gala is to your left.” He’s grinning. “Ma'am.”

“Thanks,” South grunts, and follows where he points. The further she gets down the hall, the more old fashioned the glaring men in the paintings look. The last few, before the open mahogany doors, are wearing priest’s robes.

The room past the doors is refreshingly modern, brightly lit. It’s full of people, though, men in uniformly dark suits and women in colorful dresses, slim and trailing, short and broad, frilly and sleek. Everyone’s holding _something_ – wine flutes, cameras, trays of whatever the fuck you put on trays. The hum of dozens of conversations buzzes out into the hall, and it all sounds disgustingly dull and professional and full of words she doesn’t know. It’s not a _party_ party. No one is laughing. There’s no music. South really, really does not want to go in there.

A banner over the stage reads, in blue block letters: _8th Annual Conference on Journalism Ethics_. Below it, next to the podium, two people are standing together, speaking.

Connie’s wearing a dress. That’s her first thought. South didn’t know Connie even owned a dress, much less one like this. It’s black, and so tight around her torso that it looks poured on, with blocks of shinier fabric sewn into a pattern around the chest and back. Her shoulders are bare– the dress reaches to just below her knees, but when she shifts her weight (a slim, sharp little black heel, straps up her ankle), South sees her pale knee peeking out from a slit down the side.

And Connie is shifting her weight, leaning in to the person next to her, talking animatedly with one hand holding a wine glass and the other on the upper arm of her companion. South thinks it’s a guy at first– black suit, like her own. Uninteresting shoes.

But she steps closer, and it’s obvious, the way Connie stands, that it’s not. It’s a woman. She’s smiling at Connie. She has an Alternative Lifestyle Haircut.

South’s climbing the steps onto the stage before she realizes her feet are moving.

“Hey,” she says, stepping up next to Connie and resisting the urge to sling an arm over her shoulder. She doesn’t want to muss the dress. Well, she _does_ want to muss the dress, just. Not like that. “Sorry I’m late.”

“There you are.” CT turns, grins at her. She’s wearing makeup– nude matte lipstick, sharp eyeliner that makes her look older, more dangerous.  "Vanessa. This is my–“ she gives South a once-over, head to toe, and then laughs. "Bodyguard, apparently.”

'Vanessa’ doesn’t laugh. South hates her immediately. Who doesn’t laugh at Connie’s jokes? Someone who doesn’t deserve her attention, that’s who.

What she does do is extend her hand to South. “Vanessa Kimball, Reporter. Boston Phoenix.”

South’s immediate impulse, when someone sticks their hand out like that at her, is to touch gloves and make a go of it. But Vanessa Kimball, Reporter, just grabs her hand and shakes it once, firmly, before letting go. South returns the hand to her pocket, awkward and off-kilter. Vanessa Kimball, Reporter, has dry, cool hands, and her grip tells South right away that this is a woman who doesn’t take anybody’s shit.

“South,” she manages. “Uh. Muay Thai and Sanshou? I’m retired.”

Vanessa nods. “It’s nice to meet you. Constance has told me a lot about you.”

_Constance_. Connie _hates_ it when people call her Constance. But she doesn’t correct Vanessa Kimball.

“Great,” South says, deciding that the dress is an acceptable loss and hooking an arm around Connie’s waist. She’s so tiny. South wants to wrap her up in the suit jacket and carry her out of here, back to real-people ville where there are no paintings of old dudes and no mahogany and no reporters. “I’m just gonna. Borrow her. For a minute.”

“Is everything all right?” Vanessa asks, and her voice is serious. She’s speaking directly to Connie. South’s hackles go down, a fraction.

“Yes,” CT says, and leans into South’s hold, patting her on the hand. “We just need to catch up, I think. It’s been a long day.”

“You let me know if you start getting threats again.” Vanessa reaches into her suit pocket and pulls out two business cards. “Notes, calls, whatever. Even if it doesn’t seem legit, okay? I won’t publish anything without your permission, but they have to learn that they can’t silence you. It’s a free country.”

Connie does laugh at that, but she takes the cards, handing one off to South, who puts it in her pocket automatically. “I’m beginning to realize that’s not really the case. Not as much as they’d like us to think.”

“That’s why we have to strive for the truth,” Vanessa says, and South’s surprised to hear such vehemence from so composed a woman. “Even if it’s ugly. Otherwise _nothing_ will change.”

“I know,” Connie says, and shrugs away from South long enough to enclose Vanessa Kimball in a hug. “Thank you.”

South clenches her fists, but the hug is brief. When Kimball steps back she gives South a curious look before heading down the stairs. South stares lasers at the rear of her perfectly fitted suit.

“You,” Connie says, with a heavy sigh “can be _incredibly_ rude.”

“Can I?” South wonders, setting a hand on Connie’s shoulder and steering her down off the stage, the other direction from Vanessa Kimball, Reporter. It spits them out in a less crowded corner of the room, next to an exit door. “Gonna yell at me about it?” She hopes she doesn’t sound too hopeful. If Connie wants to yell, then they have an excuse to leave this awful place. Connie never wants to 'make a scene’.

“Yes, you can,” Connie says, drily, and eyes the exit door. “And should I even bother? You’re practically green.”

“She was all over you,” South grumbles, looking down at her. Connie’s throat is so sleek and bare, collar bones framed in black silk, and South stares, for a moment. Can’t help herself. Thank god for that dress. Thank god for Vanessa Kimball, Reporter, not being tall enough to have this view on that dress. “Forgive me for not being happy to see my girl hugging some random butch.”

“That woman’s journalism is  probably the only thing that’s kept me out of prison,” Connie retorts, with a very unimpressed expression. South is suddenly self-conscious of the cheap suit. Vanessa Kimball wore hers better. Vanessa Kimball is probably smarter than South, and she has a real job, and she’s into Truth and Justice.

“I wouldn’t have let you go to prison,” South blurts out, frantically. “I’ve been to prison, it’s awful.” Twelve years ago. Wound up with 32 days time served, but that was more than enough. She doesn’t like to think about it.

“It is,” Connie agrees. “But you couldn’t have. I owe her big time.”

“Could have _so_ ,” South argues, mind racing. “We could have, you know. Run away, or some shit. I’d protect you.”

“You’d protect me,” Connie says, flatly “from the _United States government_.”

“No one fucks with my girl,” South agrees, and Connie laughs, finally breaking into a grin. “What? I’m serious.”

“I know,” Connie gasps, and tugs South’s arm back around her waist. “I _know_ you’re serious.”

“I know a guy,” South insists, taking the opportunity to steer them out the exit door and into the hall. “In Miami? We could go to Cuba. Who’s that chick, who broke out of jail in New Jersey? She’s been there like thirty years, they haven’t extradited her yet.”

“Assata Shakur,” Connie says, laughing. “Please stop talking, the walls really do have ears.”

“Niner would totally help,” South says. “And Carolina. She’s loaded. I bet between the four of us we could beat up, like, twelve cops. And Butch–”

Connie puts her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me.”

Just as well. Butch might _actually_ kill her.

“Just sayin’,” South takes them around the corner towards the restroom, following the signs. The old men look, if possible, even more disapproving than before. “We got your back.”

“That’s very sweet,” Connie concedes, and allows South to push her into the flowery, single-stall women’s room. The sink is huge and gleaming, and there’s a bowl of potpourri on the counter next to a vase of what appear to be real peonies. There are hand towels. “But I have to go back out there. You should shop around a bit, too, there’s quite a few sports people. Good publicity for Pelican.”

“Uh huh,” South says, distractedly, and locks the door behind them.

“South,” Connie runs a hand down South’s arm, shoulder to wrist. Her expression is fond, but South can’t stop thinking about the look on her face when she was talking to Kimball, before she knew South was there. She’d been so– engaged. Interested. Stimulated. “Other people might need to use the restroom.”

“Bet she’s really smart,” South grumbles, before she can stop herself. She knows people like Kimball, or North does, anyway. People who talk about books all the time. People with _degrees_. “Fuckin’ _Journalistic Ethics_ , who needs a fuckin’ party for that?”

“The basic principal is 'don’t lie’,” Connie agrees, rubbing her thumb over South’s palm. She leans back against the counter. “You don’t need to be jealous. There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“You talked to her a lot,” South’s sinking down on her knees, pressing her face to Connie’s stomach. She runs her free hand up the length of Connie’s lower leg, smooth and soft. Connie’s a runner, less muscular than the girls South sees all day at the gym. The curve of her calf fits perfectly into South’s palm.

“Yes,” Connie says, and lets go of South’s wrist to pet her hair, combing through and grazing fingertips over her ears. “All last month, when the Phoenix was publishing our interviews. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her name.”

“Didn’t read most of it,” South admits. The first time she picked up a newspaper with Connie’s name on the side, it had been some horrible op-ed about how she was a gold digger, desperate to get her name in the news. Then there were all the letters to the editor that they kept fucking printing, all about how Connie hated America and Connie was a terrorist and Connie was responsible for all the people dying in Afghanistan, and to top it all off Wash had read that one over South’s shoulder and thrown a _fit_ , and made some calls, and before South knew it there were eight guys (and three dogs) from Veteran’s for Peace in her and North’s kitchen making signs and she was just tired of all of it.

The Herald printed a letter from some guy in Medford named Ed Pinkton, who said, and South would never forget it, “What do you want to bet she’s another tranny like Bradley Manning? Give one of these freaks some press and they all come crawling out of the woodwork.” It had taken North and Maine holding her down to keep South from hopping on the nearest bus to Medford with a phone book and a baseball bat.

“South,” Connie says, quietly. “I really do owe her. But that’s all.” She tucks a clump of hair behind South’s ear, the same motion North made hours ago, but Connie’s hands are different and they light South up like a pinball machine, energy zipping from her ears to her crotch to her toes. She presses closer, rubbing her face on the silk.

Connie hums. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

South’s hands shake, finding the clasps on Connie’s heels, fumbling the straps open and tugging the shoes off when Connie lifts her feet. Sweetheart. Baby girl. Connie only calls her those things when–

“I don’t wanna mess up your dress,” she says, helplessly. She knows her face is red. She can feel it. She wants _so badly_ , but doesn’t know what to do, needs guidance. Connie knows, though. She always knows.

“So don’t make a mess,” Connie replies, and lifts herself onto the counter with her hands, letting one leg slip over South’s shoulder and onto her back.

The dress has a zip on the side, apparently. It’s tiny. South works it up in little jerks, pinching the pull between her thumb and forefinger, feeling clumsy and dumb like she hasn’t in years, big flat hands and deep voice and the fucking men’s suit. Vanessa Kimball fits in a woman’s suit. Her hands are slim and smooth.

“That’s my girl,” Connie whispers, and shifts her thighs apart. She’s wearing black silk panties, the lace trim pair with the bow on the back and the matching bra that South can’t see right now but really, really wishes she could. South ducks her head under the dress and– god. She can smell Connie. She rubs her cheek on Connie’s thigh and whines a little. She can’t reach. It’s so warm and Connie’s wet and South wants to taste her now, right now. Already. Five minutes ago.

Connie laughs, slips forward on the counter until she’s half leaning and half sitting, thighs spread. The leg over South’s shoulder presses, coaxing her in. She goes gladly, kissing up Connie’s thigh until her lips meet lace.

“If you’re good,” Connie says, with a voice South _never_ expected to hear in a semi-public place “I’ll fuck you when we get home.”

South shudders bodily, pressing her mouth and nose to hot, damp silk. She feels feverish, dizzy, and it’s not just from having her head under the dress. Only Connie knows her like this, only Connie, five-foot one and scarcely a hundred pounds, Connie who South can sling over her shoulder and carry down the stairs, Connie who read all that bullshit in the papers, in her email, listened to all the venom on the tv and the radio (and the phone, when Reddit leaked her number). Connie, who never once said she regretted it, only “It was the right thing to do. I’d do it again.”

Connie, so soft and wet on South’s mouth, so sleek and strong and hot under South’s lips and tongue, and South drags her face away to breathe, groans into the skin of Connie’s thigh. It shakes under her cheek, and South glances down to see Connie’s leg tensing, foot shaking with her heel half-off, trying to hold her weight and keep her upright.

South shrugs out from under her leg, and Connie lets out a surprised noise, something between a laugh and a gasp when South hooks elbows under her knees and stands up.

“You’re _bad_ ,” she chides, but lies back when South coaxes her down, arranging herself so that she’s flat on the counter and not bumping into the faucet.

South hums, distracted by pushing the dress up to Connie’s waist, baring her legs and the panties to the light. Much easier this way, and if South double-checks to make sure that the hem doesn’t end up trailing into the sink, well. It’s a nice dress. She’s kind of hoping Connie will wear it again.

Connie crooks her head up, watches South down the length of her own body as South slips fingers under the waist of the panties and drags them down to her knees and off one ankle. Her face is getting pink under the concealer, and South grins, charmed as always with how the tips of Connie’s ears go red. She’s so cute.

“Get back to work,” Connie breathes, and cute boils over, evaporates into sheer heat under the sweaty fall of her bangs and the clear glint of an eye limned in black.

“Yes ma'am,” South says, and does so gladly, mouthing at Connie, spreading her open just slightly enough with her thumbs to run the tip of her tongue along the slick edges of her inner folds. Connie squirms under her, and South smiles, doing it again and again, light as can be. She’s gonna keep Connie indisposed until this stupid gala is over. With any luck Vanessa Kimball will know _exactly_ where they are and what they’re doing. South spares a moment to regret not making that even clearer. The old 'tongue between the fingers’ sign would have probably done the trick. Connie would have yelled. It would have been worth it.

“South,” and Connie’s hand on her head is firmer than usual, manicured fingernails scraping her scalp, “if you want that reward– Ah!”

South does it again, a flat broad lick that peels off just under her clit, not quite touching. And again. Connie writhes, tries to close her legs instinctively, but South holds her open at the knees, laps at her rhythmically until she has to back off for air. Her face is slick from her nose to her chin

Connie’s hand in her hair clenches, tugs her back in, and South hums, nuzzles at Connie’s stomach and her thighs before continuing to eat her. Soft drag of lips, teasing tongue– she could do this all day. Would do this all day, if she had any say about it, but Connie is shuddering under her, hips jerking and body tensing and there’s nothing South wants more in the world than to make her feel good. She shifts up an inch, seals her lips around Connie’s clit, and sucks, doesn’t let up until Connie’s hand goes from pulling her in harder to pushing her gently away.

South drops a wet kiss on her thigh as she goes, licks her lips. The panties are hanging off of Connie’s toe, and she plucks them off automatically. Just, you know. So they don’t fall on the floor.

Connie’s still tense and gasping when she sits up, and of course that sends the hem of the dress spilling into the sink.

“Aw, shit,” South says, and grabs for a hand-towel to wipe her face. Also Connie’s legs, probably, although South is generally all in favor of having Connie walk around like this, sticky and loose-limbed and pink around the ears.

Connie drags a hand through her own hair and gathers the fabric up, hopping off the counter and trying to set herself in order. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“What?” South secrets the panties away in the suit jacket’s pocket for safe keeping. “You’re a rebel now. Fuck the law.”

Connie laughs, weakly. “Oh, is that what that was about?” She’s hunting around on the floor for her missing heel. South discreetly nudges it further under the sink. “I have to go back out there, Vanessa was going to introduce me to someone, some chairman of something–” she pauses, frowns.

“Do you _have_ to?” South asks, innocently. “I mean. I’m a little insulted you can stand right now.” She pokes her lower lip out a bit. “Was it not good?”

“Oh, honey,” Connie helps her up, brushes at the knees of the dress pants, cups South’s face in her hands. “You’re amazing. You’re a very good girl. Although,” she worries at the slightly damp hem of the dress “you did make a bit of a mess.”

“God,” South says, without thinking “I sure hope so.”

Connie squints up at her. Her bangs are out of order. South reaches down to comb them back into place with her fingers.

“South,” Connie asks, very slowly “where is my underwear?”

“Do I get my reward?” South pokes the lip out further, lifts her eyebrows up a bit. She’s always had a terrible sad puppy face, but it does work on North.

“That depends.” Connie steps back, and puts her hands on her hips. “Are you holding my panties hostage to keep me from speaking to Vanessa Kimball? Oh.” She cocks her head to the side, looking past South at the space under the sink. “There it is.”  

“She called you 'Constance’,” South takes a step to the side, blocking her from getting at the heel. “You hate it when people call you Constance.”

Connie’s too fast for her, though, and darts her skinny little arm right through South’s legs, coming back with the shoe. “We decided it was best to present me in the most professional light possible.” She slips her foot into the heel, fastening the straps back up the ankle. South watches her toes vanish with some disappointment. “That means full name.” She holds her hand out, palm up. “My unmentionables, please.”

“Very mentionable,” South corrects, trying to buy time. “I could mention them a lot. I could write poems to them. Are you wearing the matching bra?” She leans over, makes a show of lifting the neckline of the dress. “I knew it. Fuck, those are sexy. You are so sexy.” Connie looks up at her, all reluctant grin and half-frustrated, half-adoring expression. South lets her hands settle on her shoulders, thumbs at the dip of her collarbones. “So, so– you’re beautiful, and sexy, and brave, and–” and she’s stalling, it’s so obvious, so it doesn’t matter what she says, does it? It will all be written off as part of the act. “And smart and clever and sexy again, and I love you–”

Connie does smile, then, a wicked little thing, and reaches up with manicured fingers to tug the panties out of the jacket pocket. Oh. South looks down, dejectedly, as she slips them on over the heels. So much for that plan, then. That’s what she gets, for having such a smart and clever girlfriend.

“Hey.” Connie taps her on the nose, fully clothed and put back together and looking like she really did just go to powder her nose and splashed some water on her dress by accident. “Go wash your face.”

South licks her lips, automatically. Connie’s smile widens, revealing just a hint of teeth. “Or don’t. Would that make you feel better?” She presses up against South, full body, loops her arms around South’s waist. “Go out there tasting me, smelling like me?”

“Yes,” South says, holding her tighter. “Yes, please.”

Connie hums. “Mingle with me for half an hour more, all right?”

“Then home?” South asks, nuzzling into her hair. “And–”

“And your reward,” Connie finishes, and gives her a final squeeze before stepping back and unlocking the door. “Come on, sweetheart.” She heads off down the hall, past the useless fragile furniture and the glaring portraits.

South pauses in the doorway, does a double-take. Connie’s walking funny. Like her legs aren’t one-hundred-percent steady.

“Oh yeah,” she tells Elias Bromwich III, who looks singularly unimpressed in his priestly robes and his baroque gold frame “I still got it.”


End file.
